


from her lips, a broken hallelujah

by jedijarmarcal



Category: The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: F/M, Klaroline, overwhelming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 06:15:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14074713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedijarmarcal/pseuds/jedijarmarcal
Summary: orthe one where the concept of klaus meets the reality of carolineshort and sweet (ish?)





	from her lips, a broken hallelujah

**Author's Note:**

> hello, this is just some word vomit, excessive klaroline scripture nonsense for your weekend enjoyment. sometimes I feel things
> 
> inspired by:  
> Hallelujah- John Cale (I just really like this version)  
> The Boy Who Blocked His Own Shot- Brand New

He walks like he’s a god, the earth laid out before him by his own design, and walks tall, a roaming mountain steadfast and made to be a trembling, awe-inspiring sight. He is Vesuvius, Krakatoa- a jagged side blown out of him from cataclysmic explosions of the past. It’s a warning, don’t you see?

 

Caught up in the power and the _him_ -fearing mindset those that came after him have, he has forgotten how it’s supposed to work. They do not fall to their knees to worship his ancient existence, but rather to cower and beg for mercy- _mercy!_ Does time unravel in the mind for immortals as well, causing some slip of memory that has scratched the _most merciful_ parts of him to ruin, leaving him just a rumbling, fear-monger that invokes the smell of brimstone before even consideration of paradise crosses minds.

 

If a god is so self-sufficient, then why create life- _undeath-_ to follow in his crater steps as he pushes on through the centuries? There’s a loneliness that lingers between years that one cannot help but crave to fill, and it is a frozen existence, a perpetual winter’s night.

 

And it’s all just an expanding moment of dizzying, aching desire to be the one awestruck- but _how_ does one fulfill it? All of the wonder he’s known has contorted and devolved into his creations trembling with hellish fear at the sight of him. His name does not evoke a hallelujah, but a foreboding worse than the brassy bugle of a trumpet heralding the end times, and _of course_ he’ll revel in it. What else is there?

 

So when the swamp he calls Eden- it's heaven on earth when the other option puts him six feet beneath- finally feels unfulfilling, he looks up, a mountain unable to bear it’s own weight, and how could he have missed it? A star of a girl, burning eternal just out of his reach.

 

Suddenly, the god is no longer, but something less- not even an angel to be stripped of its wings, but a _man,_ and he feels that thing he forgot to put into everything else he’d had a part in up until this point. It’s a thumping, horrid feeling in his chest, and the radiance this fellow immortal emits feels more profound than he ever was.

 

She’s a golden, painfully beautiful rapture, shedding light onto millennia of fallacy. It’s a cruel, terrible realization, and he fights to muster that explosive rage that has decimated entire towns and left his name a black mark in history, but she is molten and what good would it do?

 

He _resents_  her, but even the thought is a flimsy thing, easily swept away by some unknown current, and he’s never really been good at such sentiment. The river growing into him though, it’s a new thing, more a total upheaval than a feeling, carving his bones and leaving a whispering echo bouncing off the walls of his marrow.

 

Love... love... love.

 

It makes him sick, just the idea, and he denies it even as it's blinding him, hands flying to his face, upturned and reverent. On his knees before her, this man feels the pain of having bent for the first time in his life, and yet... the only fear he has is that she’ll _go_. Which would only be fair; this goddess could turn her back on him- shouldn't even  _look_   _at him_ \- and still, he'd whisper soft prayers after the dusk of her departure, in case his heartbreak could travel faster than his lifetime of sin and find the heart of her and her mercy.

 

At her feet, he is broken, lost, and wretched with his ribcage flayed open in repentance. His heart is an offering, a simple and undeserving thing, but she is not him, and her divinity is unbearable in it’s magnificence- _she is magnificent._

 

Salvation comes to him with a smile, full of light.


End file.
